


The Shot and Danger of Desire

by Caledfwlch (orphan_account)



Series: (i dont kiss) lizards [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Parental Abuse, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, southern shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-05-26 06:56:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6228364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Caledfwlch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>assorted jeffermads oneshots we couldnt fit in "Stars, Hide Your Fires" but wanted to publish anyway</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. peaches

**Author's Note:**

> okay, so as it says in the summary, these scenes fit into an au that im co-authoring with The_Onion_Wanton. I recommend reading that as well, because shit will make more sense, but if youre just here for trashy, fluffy oneshots about these assholes then i wont really blame you. this isnt gonna have a coherent plot and its not supposed to. knock urself out
> 
> this chapter is backstory. other chapters will be "extra" scenes, and where they fit will be explained up here <3

The first time it happened, Demi Lovato was playing and Thomas’ mouth was full of vodka tonic. Angelica Schuyler’s hair was still long, John Laurens’ hair was still short, and Maria Reynolds walked through school a little pigeon-toed.

James smelled like a sterilized knife. His mouth was moving, but Thomas couldn’t hear him above the din of pop music. His eyes gravitated towards his wide-open mouth, flushed cheeks.

He licked his lips. “Hey!” he shouted.

James shouted something back, still unintelligible. He laughed again, then leaned in. (Thomas hadn’t seen him smile this much since sixth grade.) “I’m gonna die in here!” James shouted into his ear.

Thomas nodded and took his hand, dragging him through the crowd and out of the living room. James collapsed against his shoulder, a giggling mess. Thomas found himself a little breathless, too. He felt suspended, floating.

“You want any more?” he found himself asking.

“You are going to die of alcohol poisoning, Tom Jefferson!” James whispered. He was awfully close.

“Mmm, maybe. Not my idea, though.”

“I know,” James chuckled. “You didn’t _say_ you didn’t wanna come, though.”

“That’s ‘cause I can’t refuse you a damn thing,” he found himself saying before he could stop.

James wobbled. “You could… we could….”

Tom grabbed ahold of his friend’s shoulders. It suddenly hit him how small he was. He had the sense to guide James into a small bathroom before crumpling beside him. His hands fumbled— found the other’s again. His thumb stroked a rhythm on the other boy’s. His mind was blank. He felt a little nauseous, sure, but it was blank, and that felt good. That felt real good.

James leaned his head on the other’s shoulder. “Hey. Hey, oh man. End of freshman year. I can’t believe it.”

“Me, neither.”

“Thomas. Tom.”

“Feels like— like yesterday, we were just kids, you know?” he rambled. He shoved his face into James’ poof of hair. “Kids, and you were teachin’ me times tables ‘cause I was too dumb to get it myself.” His chest felt hot and swimming.

“Hell, no!” James pulled back, aghast. “You’re the smartest person I know!” He grabbed Thomas’ face in his hands and looked at him something fierce. “I mean that. I mean it. And don’t try to argue with me, that’s an object-able fact.”

Thomas found himself mesmerized with the curve of James’ ear. “Hmm. Hey, y’know somethin’?”

His grip loosened. “What?”

“You….” He swallowed. “You look okay.”

“Do I?”

“Uhhh-huh.” Thomas nodded. “You look good. Damn, you look good. Like, all the time, how’s that? It’s all… it’s all, like, you don’t even gotta _try_ to do that shit. Damn.”

“You ain’t so bad yourself.”

Tom beamed. “Really?”

“M-hmm.”

“You’re nice.” His eyes felt wet. “How is it you’re so nice? I can’t, you’re just, you’re good, like, I mean it, you’re a real good person, and….”

His words dissolved as James leaned his forehead into Tom’s chest and fisted both hands in his shirtfront. One of his palms flattened. He hummed.

Tom didn’t really know how it happened, who started it, who shot first, but the next thing he knew, his mouth was on James Madison’s and they were grappling at each other, nearly falling over trying to do it proper. It was sloppy, wet, and open, with Thomas’ teeth jutting against James’ jaw and James pressing long smacks on any spot of Thomas’ face he could find, but he felt like he was flying. He was flying.

The next thing he remembered was muttering, “I think I’m sick or something” and then projectile vomiting on the tile floor right next to the toilet.

James held his hair back and when he was done, he commented, “That’s a doozy.”

He still tasted his best friend’s skin in his mouth the morning after. “I don’t remember anything,” he laughed awkwardly to James’ hesitant eyes and hunched figure. “I guess we know now I’m a damn lightweight.”

James was silent.

—

The second time it happened, Passion Pit was playing and Tom’s mouth was coated with sickly sweetness. Angelica Schuyler was on vacation to London, John Laurens had been grounded for a month, and Maria Reynolds wore long sleeves in the hot, humid weather.

James’ fingers were travelling through Tom’s hair, the latter’s head lying dizzy and light in his lap.

“Remind me to never let Ben Franklin sell you weed again.”

“But Jaaames,” Thomas whined, gazing up at him in adoration.

James laughed. “I leave you for two weeks, and look what happens.”

“Mmmm.” Tom closed his eyes. James patted his forehead. “Was Virginia pretty?”

“Yes,” James murmured. “It’s especially beautiful this time of year.”

“Mm-hmm, I remember.”

“That’s right. You should see the peach trees. I took pictures, let me get my phone and I can show you.”

Tom groaned and turned, burying his face into James’ stomach. He wrapped his arms around his small frame and squeezed. “Don’t go. Don’t want you to go.”

James laughed lightly. “It’s only a few moments, dearest.”

“Missed you.” Thomas buried his face deeper into his waist. He could feel his ribs through his shirt. “Mm, you smell nice.”

James’ hands stopped in their gentle mapping of Thomas’ hair. “How many parties did you go to?”

Thomas whined.

His stroking resumed. “I’m just wondering.”

“I don’t know, like, two maybe.” He peaked up. “Three?”

James frowned.

“Don’t give me that look, _mom_ ,” Thomas giggled. “I’m safe, I‘m safe.”

“It makes no difference to me. I’m not your mother.”

“I know.” Tom reached up and took James’ hand in his own. He held his fingers gently, examining each knuckle. “Just. I missed you.”

James’ voice went quiet. He hissed again, “I’m not your _mother_ , Thomas.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Thomas rolled his head onto James’ shins. They were hard and thin. “Happy to see you, ‘s all. You make me so…. I don’t know. I can’t find the word. Do you have a thesaurus? I should find it. I gotta find….”

James gingerly took Thomas’ head in his hands and laid it on the floor next to his legs. He curled next to him and planted a kiss on the corner of his mouth. His lips were soft and full. Tom’s eyes closed.

“You had a smudge on your face.”

Tom floated on that feeling, gasping when James’ warmth breath left his face. His chest didn’t have the will to tighten. He bit his lips.

The other boy’s lips met his skin again, this time just below his ear. He sighed. “Is this what you want?” James murmured.

“Whatever you, whatever you… yeah. A lot. C’mere, please, do that again, oh my gosh. You’re so perfect, c’mon, I want you so bad? Your eyelashes. I’m dying. Jesus, Jesus, James. You’re so—“

Luckily, James cut him off with a soft kiss before he could make even more of a fool of himself. They kissed gently, slowly, warm and hazy as the long stretch of the summer. James’ tongue was sweeter and more precious than all the peach trees in Virginia.

People do funny things when they’re high. Thomas didn’t meet James’ eyes at all the next day, for fear that the delicacy in his ribcage would become real.

—

The third time it happened, some unrecognizable and muddled rap track was playing and Thomas’ mouth was slick with ironically cheap whiskey. Angelica Schuyler had cut off her hair and started yelling at people, John Laurens had gotten in his third fistfight that quarter, and Maria Reynolds shaved her head and started wearing red lipstick nearly as often as Angelica’s hand wore hers like a golden ornament.

James’ head was on his own knees, and Thomas’ heart hurt from how small he looked.

“You wanna play foosball?” he tried.

“Look at my _hands_ ,” James muttered. He stretched them both out. They flopped. “Look at ‘em.”

“Yeah,” Tom said, “me too.”

“I’m going to fail Biology.”

Even Thomas had to laugh at that. “No, you won’t. You’re too smart.”

James started crying. “I’m gonna fail. Oh, laws, I’m gonna fail it. I’m no good, I’m no good.” His thin shoulders shook fiercely. “I’ve tried to and, and, and I can’t study anymore, I just can’t. Four A.P. classes. What was I thinking?”

Thomas felt his world unhinge. “But you’re so….”

He scrubbed at his eyes and straightened out. “Never mind. It’s not— it’s not important. You don’t have to care. I’m just a little nervous.”

A little nervous: Tom could understand that. He’d had three panic attacks in the past week.

He took another swig of whiskey.

“Are you aiming to puke?”

“Maybe.”

James curled up on the floor, hugging his arms. His eyes stayed transfixed on Thomas. Even in the dark room of the Schuylers’ basement, his eyes glittered.

“I’m tired,” Tom admitted. He lay down next to James, not wanting to feel bigger than him. He cuddled his glass to his chest. “I’m tired.”

James swallowed. His lips squinched up. “Do you remember, wh-when I had an asthma attack in fourth grade? And you walked me to the nurse’s office and th— th’whole time, you were bein’ all sweet ‘n’ calling me names and….” He dragged his hands over his face. “Never mind. Christ, I don’t know why I’m acting like this.” His shoulders slumped. “I shouldn’t drink.”

Tom didn’t know what to do to make him feel better, so he wriggled closer and put his lips on James’ forehead. He kissed down the ebony line of his ear and jaw and his fragile wrists. He could feel the blood. His skin there was so thin, he thought he’d break it.

James’ hands met his face— G-d, those hands, those _hands_ — and they both relaxed into it, kissing on the floor as if they were inexperienced.

Thomas’ hand ran down James’ side, cupped his hip. James rolled one leg onto Tom, and he liked the weight there, liked the feeling of wholeness it gave him.

“I want you,” he found himself whispering as James sucked delicate circles on his neck. “It’s all the time. I try. I keep trying.” He allowed himself little gasps, then deeper ones. He couldn’t get enough air. “Can’t make myself stop, ‘n’ I dunno why… _oh_ , keep doing that, don’t stop bein’…. You’re so wonderful. You’re so beautiful. Never met, never met anyone who was sweet to me like this. Not like you.”

They kissed hard, breathing in one another. Thomas couldn’t stop grasping at his back; he felt like if he pulled James close enough, it would stop hurting, he’d stop feeling this nauseous every time he wanted to touch him. It would stop, and they’d hold hands and smile together and get the best grades in town and everyone would be so proud of them. So proud.

Tom slid his knee between James’ legs. When he pressed himself against him, he could feel him, half-hard and warm and real, real as hell. He skidded his hand over James’ torso, hesitantly cupping him in his palm.

James let out a sudden, high noise. He bit into Thomas’ shoulder. He liked it; he loved those teeth so much.

“We can’t,” James whispered wetly against his ear. “We can’t.”

Thomas felt guilt thread his heart. “But I wanna….”

“I know. I know.” James edged away, but pressed a long kiss to his mouth just the same. “Baby. Oh, I know.”

“Do you…? Am I bad?” He needed the boy’s approval so much, he was going to burst.

“No, you’re _drunk_. We’re drunk, Tom.”

He felt somehow colder at the sound of his name. “Whatever. Like I haven’t—“ His breath hitched. “Like I haven’t kissed any girls. Whatever.”

“ _Thomas_.”

He smushed his face into the rug. He remembered, vaguely, all the thighs he’d laid his hands on: skinny, always skinny. It was always drunk and skinny girls with high cheekbones and broad mouths who didn’t say his name like that, didn’t say his name like he was the most necessary disappointment of the year.

He wanted him. He wanted to hold his hand.

That night, he didn’t have anyone to hold back his hair. In the morning, he stumbled to feed himself toast and black coffee, and couldn’t get James to look at his face no matter how much he complained. “It was a _joke_ ” he whispered hoarsely before they parted, but he didn’t know if the other could hear him.

He was being avoided. He knew he was. It only got worse with each passing day. James still talked to him about school and his family, but his eyes stopped squinting at the corners when he looked at him, and his hands remained folded in his lap. Tom’s breath felt trapped inside him.

He started hanging around Adams more often than he had, liking his intelligence and his frankness, his contemplative rock. But his thoughts kept skipping back to James’ sharp wit, coy eyes, the way his voice subtly dipped when he was asking for something he wanted and his crisp diction when he made a point. Thomas wanted to sit and watch him write for hours. He ached with it.

It wasn’t until they had group essays and Thomas immediately latched onto James that he could get a moment with him to himself. He curtly agreed to work on Saturday, Thomas’ house.

His room felt fuller with James in it, sitting with his legs crossed at his familiar place on Tom’s easy chair. He engaged with him minimally, typing at rapid-fire speed when Thomas said something that sounded halfway decent. Thomas found himself caught up in staring at James’ fingers. His throat hurt.

“I’ll be going, then,” James said when they had banged out a rough draft. He stood and reached for his coat. “I can polish it up at home, so you don’t have to worry about the editing.”

Tom stood with him, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I can edit.”

James rolled his eyes. “I have to get home in time for dinner.”

Tom snatched at his sleeve before he could stop himself. He swallowed. “Stay?”

James’ eyes slightly widened. He licked his lips, then pulled away. Thomas’ hand was left empty. “What for.”

“Do you…” Tom’s eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t know, do you want a drink?”

James’ staunch expression broke; his brows drew together, his hand clapped over his mouth. His shoulders shook once, twice.

“I’m sorry.”

“We need to talk about this.”

Thomas gulped. “Do we?”

James sighed. “Yes. Yes, we do. We should talk. Sit down.”

Heart hammering in his throat, Thomas slowly sat back down at his desk, and James placed himself rigidly on the armchair. He folded his fingers in a tight bunch and hung his head. He suddenly looked much older than the fifteen-going-on-sixteen he was.

They sat in silence for a few rending moments. Then, James opened his mouth. “Do you talk like that to girls too?”

Tom gulped. “What?”

James scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “The things you said to me. Calling me beautiful and saying you wanted me and all that shit. Do you talk to everyone like that?”

Thomas blinked rapidly, his breath distant. “I don’t remem— I don’t remember. I don’t know what you mean.”

“G-d _dammit_ , I wish you’d just talk to me!” James’ voice broke. “I wish you’d just….”

“I’m sorry.”

“I mean, what is it? You think I’m not as scared as you are?” He blinked up at him, eyes wet. “I’m fucking terrified.”

Thomas gazed down. He picked at his thumbnail, shredding white. He was pathetic. “I thought… I thought it could just be, like, a thing.”

“A thing?!”

“Well…” His voice caught in his throat. “Look, I was acting stupid and hormonal and I don’t blame you for not….”

“It’s not— Jesus, it’s not like that, Thomas.” James’ shoulders shook, and Tom hated himself for making him like this, hated himself. “I really like you, but I’m not gonna be a, a _thing_. I’m not gonna be some irrelevant fling for you.”

Thomas’ head jerked up. “You like me?”

“Jesus, you’re dense.” James swallowed thickly, half-smiled. “Of course I… I just wanted to talk about this with you. I know that dating isn’t really your style, and I was okay with that. I was okay with just being your friend and not doing anything about it. I guess it’s not—“ He took a long, shuddering breath. “I guess it’s not that big of a deal for you, but you’re the only person I’ve ever felt this way about, so….” He threw his hands up. “I guess it’s hopeless, but you don’t have to pity me or nothin’. Just don’t make this some… _thing_ that we do and then regret and forget about. I don’t wanna feel guilty about you, and I c— I don’t want to stop being friends, at least for as long as possible.”

Thomas’ hands were shaking. He sniffed, “me, neither.”

James blinked, bit his lip, and looked away. Thomas stared at his profile like a painting. “I’ve been in love with you since before I knew what to call it,” he murmured. The words shot like a bullet through Tom’s chest. He could feel them paralyzing his blood and marrow. “Don’t tell me I’m a joke to you, I’d rather be nothing than be a fucking joke to you.”

Thomas wanted to stand up and kiss him and hold him and call him sweetheart and junebug and honeybee. He wanted to kiss him hard and stone-cold sober.

He couldn’t make himself move. His legs felt like lead. “I thought I could make it go away,” he found himself whispering instead. “I thought I could make it stop.”

“Oh, Thomas.”

“I thought I could get it out of my system and I’d _stop_.” Thomas’ voice cracked. He buried his face in his hands, shook his head, prickling and ashamed. “I can’t believe how… I’m such a shitty friend to you. G-d. I thought you wouldn’t touch me anymore. I should’ve known…. Of course I meant it, of course I fucking meant it, don’t think I don’t mean what I say when it comes to you, ‘cause I mean every word of it, the only parts I didn’t mean were when I said it wasn’t real. I didn’t mean to make you feel like shit, I just thought… I thought it would go _away_ ,” he repeated. He started crying uncontrollably, shoulders a wreck.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. James’ thin, warm arms wrapped around his head, and he dug his head in the other boy’s stomach. His fingers dug into his hips. “I, l… Christ, you’re beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

“You’re an idiot,” James murmured back, voice like syrup. He clutched at Thomas’ hair; he shuddered at the feeling on his scalp.

“Can I…”

“Hmm?”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yeah,” James breathed. He pulled back and tilted Thomas’ face up with both hands. His lips parted.

Tom straightened and slowly, slowly, touched his mouth to his. It was slow, fragile, gentle as mist: barely a kiss at all. But Thomas felt himself come apart, every piece of him individually, as if he were driftwood bobbing on the sea.

James brought his hand to the back of Tom’s neck. “Baby.”

Thomas shivered and closed his eyes.

—

The fourth time it happened, no music was playing and Thomas’ mouth tasted like strawberries. There was rain pattering on the window of the abandoned classroom, and James Madison had him sat on a desk and straddled so that he wouldn’t have to stand on tip-toes to kiss his jawline.

“Happy birthday,” James muttered between kisses.

Thomas could just manage a brief, hazy “thanks” because James’ arms were looped around the back of his neck and his whole body felt like dissolving sugar. All he could feel was James’ quick tongue on his, his warm hands and short, little breaths. James pulled back at smiled slightly to ask, “Are you having a party?”

“Nah.”

He faux-gasped, giggled. “The great Thomas Jefferson? Not having a sweet sixteen?”

“ _You’re_ sweet,” was the retort he came up with. He frowned.

“Okay, okay.” James laughed again, pecked his cheek. “But I’m invited, right?”

“Obviously.”

“Just checking.”

“Mmm.” Thomas took one of his hands in his. He mulled over the fingers. “I love you, you know.”

James blinked. A grin slowly burned across his face. “Oh.”

When Thomas met his eyes again, they were sparkling like stars.


	2. cream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just knocking out all the chapters i can today. others will be added as we go along
> 
> this one takes place right after james leaves the kitchen in chapter 2

“I brought you your bourbon.”

“You’re a fucking saint.”

James chuckled and sipped from the concoction before placing it carefully in Tom’s eager hands. “Tax revenue.”

“Disgusting,” Thomas said, but gulped down a sizable amount. “I got us Oreos.”

“Aww, you know the way to my heart.” James sat and slouched against Tom’s firm shoulder, a bit dizzy. Their established hangout at Laurens’ place, a crowded storage closet filled with dusty paintings and old dishes, had been left blessedly unpolluted by the teens that swarmed the basement and living room. James wondered idly how comfortable Laurens must be with the impersonality of it all as he stroked Tom’s fingers one by one. “LaFayette seems happy.”

Tom snorted. “When aren’t they?”

James smiled softly. Instead of replying, he watched Tom’s usual slow process of twisting apart his Oreo and swiping off the white cream with his finger, which he claimed was the best part. When he was done, he handed the chocolaty cookies to James, for whose tastes the filling was too sweet. They went through three cookies this way until James asked, “Do you wanna go and mingle?”

“Ugh. Too much.”

James chuckled. “I figured.”

“Plus, I heard that Hamilton kid is here.”

James rolled his eyes. “Oh come on, he can’t be that bad.”

“You haven’t met him! You have no place to—“ he hiccupped— “talk when you haven’t met him! He’s a fucking… firetruck.”

“Steamroller?” James giggled.

“No. A firetruck,” Thomas insisted. “He tries to put out my hotness.”

“You really shouldn’t try to talk when you drink.”

“Make me shut up!”

James raised a brow. “You wanna?”

“I’m tired, actually.” He emitted a long sigh and let his head wobble to prove it. “You’d be doing all the work.”

“When do I not do all the work, pumpkin?”

“You know what?” Tom pointed a lazy finger at him, barely stifling his grin. He pushed the point into James’ chest. “Shut that patronizing ‘pumpkin’ bullshit. We all know I am a cabbage.”

“When will you shut UP about the fucking cabbage thing, Thomas!”

“Never!” He threw his fist in the air. “Cabbage solidarity! Cabbage mutiny!”

James shook his head at the inky ceiling. “I am dating an idiot.”

“And whose fault is that? Huh?”

James turned to him with a stone-cold serious expression and deadpanned, “the liberals’.”

Thomas’ eyes teared up. “You’re right. You’re so fucking right, as always. You’re a genius, Madison. Have my babies.”

As it was, they made it through half an hour of sloppy, giggle-ridden fooling around until they both decided again that they were too sleepy and James ended up curled peacefully and shirtless on the floor, letting Tom trace shapes on his back from behind.

He grappled for one of Tom’s hands, and it quickly found him, their interlocked fingers resting on James’ hip. “I’m gonna miss you,” James found himself muttering into the floor.

“The hell you mean?” Thomas slurred. “We’ll be doing this for as long as you want.”

He squeezed his hand. “I just meant, after tonight. When we go outside.”

“Oh.” Thomas resumed his cursive pattern on James’ skin. “Yeah. I guess… yeah. Me too.”

“We should move states,” James continued. His brain felt foggy; his mouth felt honest. “You know that, right?”

“You wanna go back to Virginia?”

“I want Virginia,” James said, voice low. “I’m not so sure it wants us.”

“Well….” Thomas sighed, knowing he couldn’t object. “What d’you want, then? Stay up here? It’s so cold here, James. It’s fucking freezing.”

“I’m not trying to fight.” Suddenly, he felt tears prick his eyes. He furiously blinked them back. His hand brushed the dark; his throat ached.

“I want to go home.”

“I know.”

Thomas’ hand rubbed his hip. “We can go together. It ain’t all bad.”

James sighed and turned his face towards the floor. “Forget I mentioned it. I know we’ll figure something out.” He laughed, swallowed. “I know your mind won’t forsake us.”

“I am the brains of the family,” Thomas drawled. His voice melted just a little bit when he said, “I want to be sweet to you all the time, you know.”

James closed his eyes and nodded. He suddenly longed for home, for quiet: for a blanket around his shoulders and chamomile tea and his astronomy book— the illustrated one he loved to read when he was small, before reading was an obligation, when stars were still fun.

But he knew it was an illusion. He hadn’t felt at home with his family from the moment he could talk; he’d been disjointed, a quiet missing link that got lost in the rolling fields rather than owned them.

So he turned and shuffled down until he could fit his mouth at the cave of Tom’s ribcage, breathing in the scent of the closest thing to home he knew. “Damn,” he whispered. “Just… damn. Baby.”

Tom’s fingers gingerly traced the shell of James’ ear and burrowed in his thick frizz of hair, making him shudder when they tickled his scalp.

“Can you get back up here?” Thomas finally muttered. “I’m afraid I’m gonna crush you.”

James wiggled back up to his previous position above Tom and let the taller boy gently roll him back over. His eyes slipped shut as Thomas kissed a soft line up the nook of his spine. His shoulders finally relaxed as he dissolved into being loved; the last snag of anxiety dissipated as the outside commotion of other peoples’ voices fell into a lull, a rhythm with Thomas’ gentle administrations.

He liked to do this, and James let him do it sometimes: pick a random part of his body and make his way over every inch of skin until he’d touched his hands and lips on all of him, fluttering and unrushed as summer rain. James knew that he could go for hours, not even claiming, just touching, just marveling. James admitted to himself that he couldn’t really understand it, and as much as it elated him, it confused him, too, tension washed away and replaced by a tender but unfamiliar wholeness.

He fell asleep to the feeling of Tom’s kisses on his shoulder blades, his arms wrapped around him to shield him from the cold he hated.


	3. lemonade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> takes place during the weekend between the first debate class and when john adams publishes charles lees bullshit. around the same time alex and john are doing their thing in chapter 4, actually
> 
> will i ever write these two without alcohol involved, you ask? well, thats an interesting question

“He just makes me so _mad_.”

James hummed in response, gliding the edge of his foot along Tom’s. He was stretched out opposite Tom, a math book bigger than him weighing down his thighs. A crisp, navy blue shirt was buttoned up to his throat, dark-wash jeans clean and stiff. He looked pristine, but that was because that’s how James always looked.

Tom ran a hand through his hair. “It’s like, he thinks he knows better than me about everything. He looks at me like I’m stupid, or pathetic, the little pipsqueak. Then expects me to give him the time of day. It’s disrespect, is what it is. Disrespect.”

“Tom.” James arched his eyebrows pointedly, eyes flickering to meet his. “Your homework.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tom unenthusiastically picked at his pencil, scanning over Shakespeare. “I’ve already _read_ this.”

“But have you written about it?”

“Yes. Twice.”

“No, you wrote about it one and a half times. I wrote most of that essay for Ms. Goldman for you. It was freshman year.” 

Thomas groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare take you down memory lane.”

Tom smiled at him, a bit stupidly, and James allowed him a small smile back. “Hey,” Tom started, “remember in second grade when you lost your comb and—“

Just then, his phone started vibrating. Exasperated, Thomas whipped it out of his pocket and checked the message.

“Who is it?”

“It’s John Adams,” Tom told him, rapidly jotting back some brief retort. “He wants to know why he wasn’t invited to our study session today.”

“Well, why wasn’t he?”

Thomas paused, thumb hovering over the ‘send’ button. “You want me to invite him?”

James smiled, eyes twinkling. “No.”

Tom sighed, then laughed in relief as he hit ‘send.’ “Good, ‘cause neither did I.”

The pads of James’ toes met his. “I actually want to get stuff done today,” he reminded him, not without some mirth. “It’s a cold life of books for us old maids.”

“Yeah, at this rate I’ll die a maiden,” sighed the other boy, and turned back to his reading. He underlined a few passages here and there, pausing more often than he’d like to admit to glance up and James’ eyelashes, his cheekbones.

 _Pretty_ wasn’t the word to describe him. He felt familiar slivers of self-disgust cling to him, the way they had since middle school, and though they were softer these days, they’d never quite dislodged themselves from Thomas’ heart. They combined with the strange somersaults in his stomach to somehow make him feel, actually, quite young.

He avoided eye contact for a while until he heard James snap his book shut. He looked up to see the other boy with his arms over his head, stretching up over the arm of the long, velvet couch like a cat and yawning.

“You finish your Calc 2?”

“Yep.”

“You’re such a whiz,” Jefferson teased, as if it were a flippant insult instead of a compliment.

“Not comparatively,” James replied in like manner.

“Hey, you want some lemonade?” Tom asked, hope twisting his chest.

“Thomas…”

“We have Mike’s hard.”

“You wanna drink on a Sunday afternoon? While your parents are still out at church?”

“So what if I do?” Tom flushed. “What, you expect me to be some saint?”

“Not at all. That’s why I keep you around.”

“Oh.” Despite himself, he felt sparkling bubbles pop in his chest. “That’s good, I guess.”

“What the hell,” James chuckled. “Get me a can.”

So Tom threw off his book that he hadn’t been really reading and stretched away the buzzing in his legs and back and padded to the kitchen to get a cold drink, because that was the kind of relationship they had, he guessed. One laced with the unspoken but mutual understanding that Thomas liked doing things for James, even small and silly things, because he liked taking care of someone the way he hadn’t ever gotten to care. And maybe, just a little, he needed desperately some evidence that he was good inside.

To his surprise, James hopped up and followed him into the kitchen (not the real kitchen, where the food was made, but the small, homey one stocked with snacks and drinks and china trinkets). He hopped up on the counter and dangled his legs while Tom opened the fridge and reached to the back of it.

“Get one for yourself, too.”

“Mhm.”

They sipped their drinks in pleasant silence. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows, illuminating all of James’ strong features and dark skin. His thin legs swung like a pendulum. What Thomas could do to him on a kitchen counter. What he had done.

“Hey,” James rumbled after a few moments. “C’mere.”

Tom did, clunking his can behind him on the counter and smiling up at the other boy like a dope. James set down his drink firmly and ran three cool, slender fingers through Tom’s hair. “Kiss me.”

“Yep.”

James cupped his face and guided it up to his own. Soft lips met his own, full and sweet as a summer plum. No matter how many times they did this, it felt new, and unraveling, and confusing. Nearly a year in and James could still make Thomas’ mind go blank with just his mouth and his hands and the rebellious streak that ran races through his quiet, fragile body.

He let himself be kissed. Closed-lipped, slow.

James pulled a hair back and breathed heavily into his mouth, “ _sweetheart_ ,” and Thomas lost it.


	4. what have i done with my life and where did it get me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> since im currently stuck in apush hell i thought it was a good idea to publish... this
> 
> im wishing luck to any of you taking ap tests this year!!! and also hoping youll forgive me for these gross misicharacterizations of the great ~~threesome~~ triumvirate and shameless meta

“Remind me again why we decided to take APUSH.”

“Because you said you wanted the college credit, and you were bored,” James patiently reminded him, “and I actually care.”

“This is bullshit!” Tom huffed, throwing the mile-thick biography of Henry Clay to the ground. “I wish we’d just stuck to the Revolutionary period for the whole semester.”

James frowned in concentration as he drew yet another shape on Tom’s arm in pen. “Hold still.”

Thomas quieted his movements, head lying complacent on James’ lap, but his mouth kept running races. “I should have _known_ antebellum would piss me off. I thought I could laugh at him, but this—!”

“Hold still, babe.”

“Sorry. Clay was just a fucked-up guy.” He closed his eyes. “I at least could’ve gone with Calhoun. Or been like you, been smart about it and chosen Webster.”

“Webster says absolutely nothing, I love him,” James agreed. “I can see why you like Calhoun, though.”

Thomas squinted one of his eyes open. “… Why? And if you say it’s my politics, I’ll use your knitting needles for chopsticks.”

James deadpanned, “he had great hair.”

Tom snorted, then quickly stilled. “I am not fucking John C. Calhoun.”

“Of course you aren’t, he’s dead by now.”

“But you’re implying I would fuck him were he alive?!”

James chuckled. “Well, think about it. Vampiric, eccentric, terrible at pretending moderation….”

“What, you’re saying I like Calhoun ‘cause he’s like you?”

“Yes, I love comparing myself to a dead racist.” James half-smiled, eyes twinkling. “All I’m saying is, you’re definitely the Clay in this relationship.”

Thomas gasped. “I am NOT—“

James laughed. “Honey, honey. I was kidding.”

“I would never disrespect the Constitution like that! The fucking nerve that guy had. Honestly.”

“I’m just saying.” James paused in his drawing to stroke Tom’s forehead. “You have his drive.”

Tom quirked a brow, but smiled nonetheless. “What, you think Henry Clay and John C. Calhoun made hot, steamy love every night?”

“Thomas, we hardly have sex every day, much less every night!” James protested humorously.

“We could change th—“

“Listen, it’s not completely impossible!” James’ face contorted, clearly restraining from laughter. “History is always distorted by those who do not wish to seek its truth.”

“Its truth as in, Clay and Calhoun buttfucking.”

James erupted into breathy laughter. He lay his forehead on Tom’s. “Precisely.”

Thomas kissed his cheek where he could angle himself to find it. He reached up and cupped James’ face delicately in his hands, getting lost for a moment. James kissed him properly on the mouth, a hand settling on his stomach. When Thomas heard him gulp, he kissed a delicate line to his ear, where he crooned softly, “oh, Mr. Calhoun.”

James took advantage of his hand’s position to tickle his boyfriend mercilessly.

When Thomas was in tears and curled up like a pill bug, James stretched over him and opened his computer. “We are documenting this.”

“You’re evil and I hate you.”

“M-hmm, I know, sweetheart.”

Thomas sat up but remained draped over James’ shoulder, watching him type:

_John C. Calhoun restlessly paced his study, books strewn about the room with a reasonable level of reckless abandon. He ran his hands through his lustrous, nationally proclaimed hair._

“Now it’s your turn,” he said quite solemnly, passing the computer to Tom.

The other boy cracked his knuckles. “All right, here we go.”

_A bang on the door. “Knock knock it’s me motherfucker.”_

“You can’t have Henry Clay say ‘knock knock it’s me motherfucker!’”

“Watch me.”

James tutted, turning the laptop back to himself.

_The bedraggled orator opened his door to find none other than his dream, his nightmare, his fantasy… Senator Henry Clay of Kentucky._

_The South Carolinian gasped. “Senator Clay! Why have you paid me a visit at such an hour? Surely you do not wish to debate the issue of slavery now, the issue that is rocking this nation to its very core and provoking the utmost violation of all that we hold sacred, most of all the preservation of the peoples’ peace and welfare???!”_

_”Nah buddy I’m just here to get some dick,” said Clay._

James glared at Thomas, who offered him a grin in return, and wrestled the keyboard away from him once again.

_The thinner man blushed lightly, marring his otherwise gorgeously pasty Southern complexion. “Why, Senator,” he murmured hotly, “I’ve never known you to be so straight-forward about matters of the heart and body.”_

_”Yeah well apparently not much about me is straight actually,” said Clay._

“You have to write more than that, come on! We are doing this properly.”

Thomas sighed. “Fiiine.”

_”Yeah well apparently not much about me is straight actually,” said Clay. He advanced into Calhoun’s frankly disgustingly cluttered office space; then again, Clay himself was prone to hideous lapses in frugality that stood to represent his betrayal of his true duty as a statesmen, which was to PROTECT THE INDIVIDUAL RIGHTS OF THE PEOPLE!!! He smacked his fishy lips, turning his disturbingly beady and lizard-like eyes on his colleague-turned-rival, John C. Calhoun. “Speaking of not being straight, how about we commence with the screwing.”_

“Nice,” James said, taking back the narration.

_Calhoun was ruffled, which only served to further glorify his dazzling, luscious, and angelic mane of hair. Unused to being at a loss for words, he quickly tried to divert the topic of conversation, despite knowing all too well the pronounced hunger in the Whig's eyes (a hunger that, despite himself, thrilled him to the core). “We were close friends once, you know,” he reminded the Senator, voice cracking. “You had the opportunity for a greater purpose. You have really fucked up the southern regions of this glorious nation.”_

_”You could fuck up my southern regions if you catch my drift,” said Clay. “You know, harvest your bounty, plant your seed. You get the idea. What are all these books for anyway I can’t even fucking read bluhhhhhbluhblu bluh I’m from the north,” he continued poetically._

“See? He sounds exactly like you.”

Thomas scowled. “Thanks.”

_Calhoun daintily covered his mouth, as was his Southern way. His eyelashes fluttered; a lock of that MAGINFICENT, SHINING, UNPARALLELED hair fell over his eye. “But Senator,” he breathed, “this is highly inappropriate.”_

_”I don’t care about appropriateness in matters of national policy, so would you presume I give a shit when it comes to literal sodomy?” said Clay. “Now come on we don’t have all night. Chop, chop.”_

“Now he really sounds like you!” James chuckled.

“Excuse me?!”

James cleared his throat, then pitched his voice higher. “Oh _James_ , faster _please_ , fuuuck, I’m gonna _die_ —“

“Screw you!” Thomas shouted, face red.

“You wish!”

Tom smushed a pillow into his face. James yelled and quickly retaliated, tossing it at his stomach. He quickly shoved the laptop onto his desk and squeaked, putting his arms up in means of feeble protection.

This was a dire mistake, as it offered the perfect opening for Tom to exact his revenge. His fingers leaped to James’ sides, lightly dancing over his ribs. The smaller boy wasn’t nearly as ticklish as Thomas, but he yelped all the same, gasping unevenly for air while he grinned.

Tom stopped. His hands traced James’ face, suddenly panicked. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” James gulped, giggled, breath too shallow. “Yeah. Oh, my G-d.”

“You sure?”

James’ breathing was evening out. He grabbed one of Tom’s hands in his, kissed his palm. “Positive.”

Thomas mashed his face into the couch. “G-d. Do I really sound like that?”

“No. You sound much more obnoxious.”

Thomas groaned.

“Honestly, though? It’s not the most obnoxious thing in the world.”

“Is that so?”

“That’s a fact.”

Tom flipped over so that he was gazing up at James from between his legs. His eyes fluttered shut at the feeling of fingers on his scalp.

James coughed. “It… well, you make me feel… capable.”

“… Capable.” Maybe not quite the word Thomas had been hoping for.

“Well.” James’ fingers continued their path through Tom’s hair. “Among other things.”

“Like what?”

“What about you?”

“No, you go first!”

“Ugh!” James poked Tom on his nose, which wrinkled up. “You know how I feel about you.”

“Well, it can’t hurt to spell it out again.”

James swallowed. “Fine.” Thomas waited, eyes closed. “Well, you’re quite intelligent, to begin with. You’re an excellent conversation partner, and not just because of that.”

“We just—“

“Shush! You told me to talk.” James put a finger on Thomas’ lips, and he shut up. “You don’t talk down to me. I like that. And you’re witty, and fast, and you have so much fire in you. You drive me crazy sometimes, but when you love something, you really love it.” His fingers went soft, trailing over Tom’s features. “I admire that.”

Warmth bubbled in Tom’s chest. He smiled.

“You don’t look too bad, either,” James added, and Thomas’ grin widened, Cheshire. “Okay, okay, your turn, big guy. Sing my praises.”

Instead, Thomas carefully rolled over again and pressed his mouth to James’ inner thigh through his jeans, taking both his hips in his hands. Narrow. He littered the fabric with kisses, nuzzling beneath his hip.

James’ voice went half-chiding, half-sweet, one hand returning to his hair. “You want some?”

“Mayyybe.”

He chuckled. “So pushy.”

Thomas lifted up his head and put his chin on James’ belly. His eyebrows waggled. “It’s my northern sentiments.”

“We are not having sex for the next year.”


	5. the sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bet you thought i wouldnt update this again huh well you owe me money
> 
> warnings: this chapter includes frank discussion and rationalization of child abuse, and self-harm rising from internalized homophobia

“We could’ve made a volcano.”

“Everyone makes a volcano. Besides, they are so messy.” James painted their Styrofoam sun very carefully, his tongue poking out between his lips. The weather was too hot for even him to wear a sweater, and his grey polo shirt showed his thin arms, smooth and dark as a buckeye.

Thomas fiddled with the rubber band around his wrist and focused on their diorama. It was their last project of sixth grade, “something fun,” and she’d let them choose partners. Tom should have known better than to vie for an explosion. He flicked Venus, and it wobbled. “I wanna get an A on it, though. If I get an A, I’ll get ten dollars.”

“What do you mean, you’ll get ten dollars?” James giggled. Tom didn’t like the way he giggled. It was too high up, indecent… girly.

“If I get an A in the class, I get ten dollars.” Tom counted on his fingers. “Five for a B. Two for a C.”

“You get B’s?”

Tom flushed. “Not on _purpose._ ”

“You get money for your grades?” James was staring at him now, paintbrush set down. There was something resembling a face on the sun, but Tom let it pass.

“Yeah. I needed incentive, you know….” He squirmed. He’d kept his low grades a few months ago a secret from James— he didn’t know why. Didn’t know why he couldn’t get higher ones, either. He was smarter than that. That’s what his father had said.

James was even smarter. He must be rich. Thomas knew his family was rich, like his. “What do you get for your grades?”

James squinted. “’Get?’”

“Yeah, what do you get when you get an A?”

His eyes were still narrow, confused-looking. “I don't get slapped?”

Tom sat up. “You get slapped for getting B’s?”

“You don’t?”

They held each other’s eyes for a few moments, James’ still narrowed, the way they looked when he read a word he didn’t understand. Thomas heard birds chirping outside.

“I mean, like, I get spanked plenty,” he finally said, rolling his eyes, “but for other stuff. I don’t get _slapped_.”

“It’s different?”

“Of course it’s different.” Thomas bristled. “It’s not bad if it doesn’t leave a _mark._ ”

James nodded, face normal again, and went back to painting.

“We’re almost done.” Thomas leaned over his shoulder. “I have some money. Do you want to go somewhere? We could get ice cream. Or go to the bookstore.”

“The bookstore sounds nice.”

Thomas found himself by James’ side no more than a few minutes later, taking the short, safe walk to the bookstore in the square near his house. The sky was clear blue, the landscape flat and bright with sunlight. James kept his eyes down, occasionally picking up a pebble and pocketing it. Tom had the strong, sudden urge to take his hand, rub his thumb on the back of his slender arm. It made his chest hurt. He quickly snapped the rubber band against his wrist, and the tension subsided.

The bookstore was quiet and light. The boys mutually relaxed. James walked straight past the kids’ section, murmured a monotone “no, thank you, ma’am” to one of the employees when she asked if they needed any help, and crouched in front of an adult Non-Fiction aisle. He delicately removed a thick book on botany.

Thomas joined him, leaning against the bookshelf with slouching shoulders. “Do you want that one?”

James leafed through it (haha). “Hm.”

“I can buy it for you if you want.”

James frowned. “You don’t have to do that.”

He shrugged. “I know.”

James tilted his head inquisitively at the ground. Thomas didn’t see him make eye contact very often, but when he did…

He fidgeted and snapped the rubber band again. “I always spend my money anyway. I’d rather— I mean, you’re my friend, right?”

“Yes.”

“It’s the good thing to do.”

James looked back at the book. “This one is an aloe. _Aloe vera._ It’s a cactus, but it doesn’t have spines. When you break it open, the gel can numb burns.”

Tom leaned over, nodding. James smelled like— “Is that your favorite?”

James tapped his head, then snapped his hand back down. “Hm. Can I pay you back?”

Tom smiled. “No. It’s not allowed.” 

James smiled too, close-lipped, and met his eyes for a couple of seconds before looking away. Tom felt something like… something like— He bit his nail.

“Thank you.”

“Uh-huh.”

Thomas couldn’t sleep that night, bouncing his legs to get out the jittery feeling. His head hurt. His chest hurt. He flicked the rubber band against his arm, panicking and then relaxing at the sting— buzzing.

The next morning, he peeled off the scab on his wrist and stole money from his father’s drawer to buy an aloe vera.


	6. wow this sure is chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEYY everyone
> 
> theres always a warning for abusive, ableist parenting in this series, but... especially warning for this chapter. the pairing doesnt feature much but there are some characters that will recur in the sequel (however, if you want to skip over it, the gaps are not hard to fill in)

James Madison was nothing if not a persistent bargainer. Most days, he was fairly proud of this fact. He was, however, beginning to find occasion on which his pride perhaps exceeded its practical limitations. There would be very little other cause for Alexander Hamilton to be in his bedroom, staring avidly at his Venus flytrap.

Opportunity had approached him that Monday in the form of Mister Washington after AP World History class. He had said with a slight smile that he and his wife would be out of town for the long weekend, and he was wondering, if it would not impose too much, whether Alexander could stay at a friend’s house.

James had little reason to wonder why Alexander couldn’t stay home alone for the weekend, or spend the night at the Laurens household, not to mention stay with Burr in his two-room apartment. But, “Pardon me, sir, but are LaFayette and Hercules unavailable this weekend?”

The professor had offered a light laugh. “I wouldn’t want to impose on Hercules’ family. As for LaFayette, they’re still staying with the Schuylers, and I’m afraid Alex gets very little done when he spends the night there, no matter how he insists he does.”

James nodded. “That’s all right. I like Alexander.” He tried a smile, and Washington returned it. “I don’t suppose there would be any extra credit opportunities for me, just a minor one, perhaps, in exchange?”

Washington blinked.

James blinked back.

“Well, I’ll never turn down a desire for extra credit. How about you write a second essay this weekend for ten points?”

“Twenty points?”

“Fifteen. That’s final.”

James smiled again. “Thank you, sir. I’m looking forward to spending time with Alexander.”

He was not. Hamilton was exciting to spend time with in relatively short increments, of course, but James was starting to question if he could handle three days’ worth of… excitement.

As was being exemplified now, as Hamilton flicked at his plant. “Where did you get this?”

James frowned. “Please don’t touch Kitty. She was a gift.”

“’She?’” Hamilton squinted at her. “Who gave a Venus flytrap to you as a gift? It was Thomas, wasn’t it? I bet it was.”

James clenched his fist at his side.

Hamilton stuck his finger in-between Kitty’s leaf-blades. James felt his mind white out. Quick, his hand snapped Hamilton’s out of the way before he could think. “I said stop it. That’s bad for her.”

Hamilton’s eyes were wide. His hand loosely curled by his side, laugh half-dead on his tongue.

James examined Kitty for any marks of ill-wear, nudging her pot as she slowly re-adjusted her blades. James took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I… I’m sorry. Um.”

James looked at him.

He stammered. “Wow, I… anyway. You really like plants, don’t you?”

James felt his cheeks heat up.

Hamilton shoved his hands in his pockets. “Anyway, you have a really splendid house. Did I say that already? I wasn’t expecting your room to be this extravagant, you have so many interesting things here. One wouldn’t think it from the way you present— I mean that in a complimentary way. Modesty is a virtue I greatly admire.”

“Thank you,” James said while Hamilton paused for breath.

“I mean, I’ve always sort of wondered what you do with your time away from school, so it’s pretty exciting to be here, even if it wouldn’t be my first choice. I didn’t mean— fuck.” His cheeks turned pink.

James laughed a little and sat in his chair by the window, folding his hands between his knees. “It’s quite all right. I did assume you have other company you would prefer over me.”

“That isn’t to say I don’t like you!” Hamilton fidgeted for a bit before sitting down as well, turned sideways before Madison’s desk. “Just that Da— Mister Washington doesn’t think that I should be spending the night at John’s— which is frankly preposterous, seeing as we… like, we…” He twisted his hands, face only getting pinker. James raised his eyebrows. “Anyway. I hope you don’t mind me staying.” His shoulders relaxed a bit. James wondered whether the slight deflation meant he would talk a bit more slowly, now.

“Well, the upside of being closeted is that Thomas could spend the night practically every week if he wanted to.” He let his lips twitch to show he was joking.

Hamilton laughed loudly and tucked his hair behind his ears. “You two abuse that privilege, I suppose?”

James nodded faux-solemnly. “Power is a dangerous thing in the hands of reckless men.”

Hamilton made a fist, then drummed his fingers against the desk. “Are those fountain pens? Hah, woah.” His shoulders seemed tight again.

“Yes.”

“D’you mind if I look?”

“That’s all right. Those are expensive, though.” James smiled a bit. He took out his phone while Hamilton gasped as he held a pen up to the light.

_he is enamored with my fountain pens._

**is that a metaphor**

_i don’t need this._

**what is he wearing lol**

_thomas you literally saw him today._

**well i wasnt paying attention!!!**

_you are truly an enigma wrapped in a question mark._

_\- also the columbia hoodie._

**aww hes tryna impress u**

_im turning off my phone._

**babE**

_< 3_

Hamilton raised his eyebrows. “Thomas?”

James smiled to himself and slipped his phone into his pocket. “Hm.”

“In all seriousness—“ Hamilton cleared his throat. “I am happy for you two. Even if he is practically my arch-nemesis, and your monetary opinions are terrible.”

“… Thanks.”

“You know what I mean.” Hamilton twisted his hands together, looking at the floor.

“Me, too.”

Alexander smiled at him then, softer than before, mean edge gone and replaced with warmth, something almost puppy-ish about him. “Do you wanna watch _Cutthroat Kitchen_?”

James placed a hand over his heart. “I love watching those people fail.”

“Me, too! What season are you on?”

They ended up on their stomachs next to each other on James’ bed, Hamilton’s hands clasped and his feet kicked up while they watched and laughed together. James still felt strange and prickly in his body, almost like reality had been altered a bit, the intimacy like swallowing a hard stone. Only he, Thomas, and sometimes his baby siblings had been in this bed. He wanted to put on five more layers of clothes.

At a quarter past six, James let out a breath and closed the computer. He sat up, cross-legged, and forced himself to train his gaze on Alexander’s eyes.

Hamilton scrambled to a sitting position as well. “What is it?”

“Ah, dinner should be soon.”

“Okay.”

Though he’d practiced it in his head, he felt almost unsure how to go on. “I want to emphasize that you should be on your best behavior.”

Hamilton frowned, haunches up again. “I know my manners just fine.”

James sighed. “It’s not that.” Maintaining the eye contact was becoming difficult, his brain feeling slightly frazzled. “I’m just asking you, as a friend, to show a certain level of deference.”

“Deference?” Hamilton’s eyebrows jumped.

James gave up, rubbing his temple. “Just don’t cause a stir, that’s all.”

“I think I can manage that somehow.”

James checked his watch. “We’d better head down then.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

James hid his eye roll behind closed lids and kept his hand on the bannister down the stairs. Smooth, centering.

Francis Taylor, Ambrose, Nelly, and William were already at the table when they entered. Sarah Catlett stared at Alexander from the corner with her wide, brown eyes, tugging on one of her small, fluffy buns. Hamilton was clearly staring at the overhead light as he slowly sat down, rubbing the corner of a napkin between his hands. “Seriously, Madison,” he whispered. “Seriously.”

James fixed his eyes on Francis Taylor. “Where is Catlett?”

Francis Taylor straightened a little in his seat, chin up. He was having the nerve to grow full inches taller than James in his current growth spurt. “She’s putting Elizabeth to bed.”

James nodded. “Good. Everyone, this is Alexander Hamilton. He’s staying here for the weekend. He is a guest, so please be sure to treat him with respect and courtesy while you’re here.”

Most of the kids greeted him and introduced themselves, and Alexander flushed slightly.

Francis frowned at Sarah, who was still backed against the wall. “Sarah Catlett Madison, sit down. Ma and pa will be here any minute.”

Sarah slowly approached the table and climbed onto her chair, which was still almost too low for her. Her chin barely reached the table.

James noticed Ambrose flapping his fingers in front of his eyes as he stared up at the light. He debated bringing it up for a moment— decided to be nice. “Ambrose,” he murmured. “You need to stop doing that now.”

Ambrose squeezed his eyes shut, still flapping.

James took a deep breath. “Ambrose.”

Hamilton started, “You know, that’s actually a symptom o—“

James kicked him under the table.

“Hey!”

He forced a smile. “Alexander.” He reached across the table and gently laid a hand on Ambrose’s elbow. Ambrose clenched his hands into fists, then pressed them into the table. “Thank you,” James said.

“You’re welcome.”

At that point, Catlett came rushing down the stairs, smoothing her twists out of her face and brushing her skirt as she sat down next to Hamilton. She let out a soft gasp when she saw him, then turned to Francis. “Sorry I’m late….”

“Catlett, this is Alexander Hamilton, James’ schoolfriend.”

She smiled at him. “Nice to meet you. I apologize for coming in such a mess.”

Alexander laughed breathily. “It’s quite all right, I assure you.”

James could see William’s eyes roaming over Hamilton’s attire. James made a mental note to tell him later not to stare at someone just because they wore a T-shirt to dinner.

When their parents walked into the room, everyone settled. Ambrose hid his hands in his lap; Catlett squared her jaw; Francis sat even straighter, nodding to both of them. James kept his eyes to the side. It couldn’t take more than an hour.

“Alexander Hamilton,” Eleanor said and offered out her hand. “I hear you’re one of our James’ friends from school?”

“You could say that, Miz Madison,” he said, voice in a slightly lower register than usual, shooting James a glance and a smirk while he stood and shook her hand.

“Please, call me Ellie,” she replied, to which James had to resist another eye-roll.

“I hear you’re quite a bright young man,” his father said as he sat down, flipping and smoothing his napkin on his lap in one fluid motion.

Hamilton sat up straighter and squirmed, a small smile making it onto his face. “Thank you very much. I try.”

“Did you hear James got a five in his AP History class this year?” Eleanor said. “We are so proud of him.”

This was the first James had heard of that pride.

“A five?” Hamilton gasped. He bumped James’ arm; James clenched his fist. “You didn’t tell me that!”

“I suppose he didn’t tell you about his three in Psychology, either.”

James forced a light laugh, looking at Hamilton’s shoulder. “Yes, that was in sophomore year.”

“Aaron told me you took, like, four AP classes that year?” Hamilton breathed.

“He would tell you that.”

Alexander frowned— opened his mouth. Before he could speak, James, Sr. bowed his head, clasping his hands, and the kids crisply followed suit. James wove his fingers and kept a half-lidded eye on Hamilton. Alexander gasped slightly, looked from side to side, then quickly bowed his head. James silently mouthed the words to “Safety Dance.”

As the food was passed around, Alex chattered animatedly with James’ parents, rocking a little in his seat. James tuned them out, keeping still, keeping an eye on his siblings. He ate methodically. Everything tasted the same.

Ambrose was pushing the food around on his plate, a queasy look on his face. He picked at the sleeves of his shirt. James stared down at his food. He vaguely remembered Ambrose saying he didn’t like the way steak felt in his throat. They would give him steak, on a night like this. James tried to meet his eyes, tweak his facial expression into something that might mean, _I know it’s hard, but you can make it._ Ambrose wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“So what do you plan to major in in college, Alexander?”

“Ooh! I was hoping to go into Economics or Political Science. And what a place to do it, you know? I could visit Wall Street, really learn, get an internship or something. This food is delicious, by the way, oh my gosh—“

“Ambrose!” James’ mother hissed, cutting off Hamilton. “What did I tell you about doing that at the table?”

James caught a glimpse of Ambrose filtering the light with his hands again. He closed his own eyes and rubbed his temple, an adapted version of how he’d used to tap it. That was before—

“If you really hate my cooking that much, you don’t have to eat it,” Eleanor said evenly.

“I’m sorry,” Ambrose whispered.

“One more time I see you embarrassing us in front of a guest, you go right upstairs, young man.” She waited for a response. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The table had gone dead silent. James glanced at Alex’s face, his eyes wide, fork half-way to his mouth. James looked away when he tried to meet his eyes. He used to feel small when they did this, when it was him. Now, he just felt like he was floating. Like the world was fuzzy, almost pleasant.

“As we were saying—“

Ambrose clenched his fists in front of his eyes.

“All right, that’s it.” Eleanor grabbed his arm, eliciting a high-pitched screech. “Go clean your plate off, then head upstairs.”

“But—“

“If you can’t behave yourself, you have to learn how.”

Ambrose sat still, shaking, for a moment. Then, he picked up his plate and walked in small steps to the kitchen.

“I am so sorry about that,” Eleanor murmured to Alex. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

“It’s fine, really,” Alexander replied, voice quieter. He pulled his sleeves over his hands. James wished he could do the same. Alex politely declined desert when asked, followed James up to his room.

They sat in silence for a minute, James staring blankly out the window, fervently wishing he was gone. He resisted the urge, as strong as it was, to draw his knees to his chest, block out the sound of Hamilton’s breathing.

“So,” Alex finally said.

“Mm.”

“Jesus, your parents are awful.”

James shrugged.

“Can I check on Ambrose? Would that get you in trouble? That is so messed up. I thought John’s dad was awful.”

“He’ll be fine.”

“I just want to make sure—“

“Trust me.”

“All right.” Alex took a deep, shaky breath. James finally looked over to his hands. His fists were clenched. “I’m sorry, I just _hate_ —“

“Don’t.”

“But—“

“It’s easier if you _don’t_.” James rubbed his eyes, then ran a thumb over Kitty’s pot. The clay was smooth, made a familiar sound on his skin.

Alex yanked on his sleeves again. “I, ah— I’m sorry I assumed about….”

“It’s fine.”

“Do you want to hear about this new book I got? I brought it, I haven’t been able to put it down. It’s about how the First World War changed the economic structure of the country, by region especially….”

A familiar topic. James finally looked at his face. It was deep red. “Sure. Show me.”

As Alexander scrambled for the book in his backpack, James picked up his phone from his desk. There were three new texts from Thomas. He smiled a bit, slowly starting to feel like a real person again.

When Alex finally left on Sunday evening, he gave James a quick, tight hug at the doorway. James’ arms were empty in a flash, too fast to reciprocate. He couldn’t exactly place how it made him feel, but decided it wasn’t terrible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did math (math!!) for this fic, so here are the ages of all the kids, by names theyre called here:
> 
>  
> 
> francis taylor- 15  
> ambrose- 13  
> catlett- 10  
> nelly- 8  
> william- 6  
> sarah catlett- 4  
> elizabeth- 7 months


	7. rosie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ur never going to escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whaaats up yet another update to this clusterfuck no one asked for
> 
> this was going to be part of the sequel and i thought id publish it because its what i cared about most tbh so at least the last chapter of this was not in vain my friends
> 
> this isnt very conclusive cause its not Finished but i thought i should post it anyway so enjoy i guess!!
> 
> continuation of Bad family being Bad + religious abuse + homophobia/transphobia, as well as misgendering because of confusion

from: lidarose@yahoo.com  
to: jmadison@princeton.edu  
Subject: Important….

Dear James,

How are you today? I’m doing all right.

I am emailing you because I want to tell you something important to me. You might not like it. However, I don’t know who else I should tell. I hope you won’t be too upset with me, but it’s okay if you are.

Last year, I found the word “transgender” and realized that’s what I am. I have not felt like a boy in quite a while, and I feel like a girl. I think I would much rather be female. I looked up “gender dysphoria” and I definitely have that. I’ve felt like this for a really long time, but I didn’t talk about it very much, so I don’t know whether you figured it out, even though you are very smart.

I know that I was born a boy, so I know it’s wrong to feel this way. Like I said, it’s okay if you’re upset with me. I tried for a while to stop feeling like this, but I can’t, so I’ve decided to live with it, even if I hate it. For now, I’m going by Rosalie in my head. I really like that name. I feel really happy when I think of myself that way. I hope you understand. It’s not just about dolls or dresses. I think I was really supposed to be a girl, even though I know Jesus doesn’t make mistakes.

Thank you for your time. I’m sorry if I rambled.

Sincerely,  
Rosalie Madison (F. K. A. Ambrose)

—

 

from: jmadison@princeton.edu  
to: lidarose@yahoo.com  
re: Important….

Dear Rosalie,

I am fine, thank you. How are you?

I am not upset with you. However, I have reason to believe that what you are experiencing may be causing you significant distress. I can do what I can to minimize that.

I would like to urge you to not divulge this information to anyone else in the family. Do not tell Ma or Pa. Do not tell your other siblings. I know you may want to, but there are very few secrets that can be kept among siblings for so long. Please bear this in mind. In addition, do not tell anyone in the church. Not only will gossip circulate, but the clergy is generally not tolerant of the LGBT+ community or its allies.

New York City is not always the kindest place for people like you. Please keep this in mind as well. If you wish to present in a manner the family is not accustomed to, I advise you do it in private until safer preparations can be made. You are not sick or wrong, but others may see you that way. That is why I beg you to take these precautions.

I recommend that if you tell anyone, they are a close, trusted friend whom you know is at least an ally and will not tell anyone else. Preferably, their families are supportive as well. There are supportive people in your high school. You may be able to alleviate some of your dysphoria at their houses, but please be sure to remove any trace of your activities from your person before returning home. There is a group at school called the MSU that will keep your attendance to it secret. If you decide to attend, please develop an alibi; a study group works well for this purpose. (I again recommend that a couple trusted friends support your alibi.) The current leader of the group, Peggy Schuyler, is nonbinary transgender and somewhat of a friend of mine. You may want to talk to xem.

I also have a friend with me at Princeton who is a trans girl, and another nonbinary friend, though they now live rather far across the country. If you would prefer to contact either of them for advice and support, I can give you their information.

Again, I ask you to confide in your trusted peers only. Do not tell our parents. Do not act in any way that may make you seem suspicious to them. I tried to tell you this before I left, but I’m not sure that you understood. I need you to understand. There will be consequences if you do not keep your identity as safe as possible, even with a network of support. You may want to consider graduating early.

Next time, please use the post if possible. I don’t know whether our parents are monitoring your emails or texts, but it’s always a possibility. You can write me a letter detailing your everyday information and wrap any more discreet information outside it. Invisible ink is also a suggestion. I recall Nelly was having a spy phase for a while. Is she still? Delete these emails as soon as possible too, please.

I hope you will also forgive me if I rambled. If you would prefer I break this message down into a list, I will be obliged to do so.

Your Brother,  
James Madison, Jr.

—

Dear James,

Thank you for the quick response. I tried to write a letter like you said, so please let me know if this works.

I appreciate the advice. I have already told one friend, whom I like a lot. Her name is Mary Laurens. Sometimes she lets me borrow her clothes.

I’m sorry if it seemed like I was being louder about it than I am. I promise I haven’t told anyone else. I’m sorry if I misunderstood, but I can’t tell if you are upset with me. I know you said you aren’t, but you seem ashamed. I’m doing my best. I’m sorry if I made it into a big deal.

— Rosalie

—

Dear Rosalie,

This works.

I am not ashamed of you. I have never been ashamed of you. I am sorry if I made that impression. What I want most is for you to be safe. Unfortunately, that means keeping secrets. If I could change that for you, I would, but now that I am not in the house, I can’t protect you physically. As it is, I want you to make the best of what you do have.

Mary Laurens is a good girl. I’m glad to know she is a friend to you. However, please be extremely careful when borrowing her clothes at her house. The Laurens family, especially the father Henry, has a history of intolerance. In addition, remember to be on your best behavior. Everything is easier if you make a good impression. Remember, even if you have to play the fool, it’s worth it to seem unthreatening. You must appear as unthreatening as possible to Henry Laurens.

Please do not stop sending me letters.

Love,  
James

—

Dear James,

Thank you for the kind words. I appreciate them very much. You’re a great big brother.

I’ve thought about talking to your friend who is a trans girl. I don’t think I would seem cool to him/her, but can you ask her for me how he/she dealt with dysphoria? Tell him/her thanks from me if he/she does.

I’ll keep that in mind about Mister Laurens, but I think Mary can keep me safe.

You have a lot of friends who are transgender. Can I ask a rude question? Are you LGBT+? I know you’re probably not, so I’m sorry for asking. I’m just curious.

I still have to go to church with the family. I know I shouldn’t, but I really hate it. I hate dressing up for it because I have to wear boy clothes that are really itchy, and I can’t concentrate enough to read. Also, sometimes the preacher says really frightening things about Hell, and I feel pretty scared of that.

I hope you’re not queer. I want you to be safe, too. Sorry for oversharing.

Love,  
Rosalie

—

Dear Rosalie,

Attached is a separate note from my friend whom you requested to contact. This is a reply to the other content of your letter, and I ask you to safely burn this or rid yourself of the information by some other fashion.

You know I stopped attending church with the family in my late high school career. Part of the reason was that, yes, your curiosity has merit. I am gay. I’m sure you remember my good friend Thomas Jefferson. We have also been romantically involved for quite a while now. This is how I know how important it is for you to stay safe, and how to do so. Many of our friends know, but no one else, including our families. We would like to keep it that way.

I don’t know what to tell you about Hell. I don’t presume to know the answers you need. I’m sorry I can’t provide more clarity. I am not entirely sure where salvation comes from. At a certain point, I think I stopped caring. If you figure out a way to love Christ and one’s full self at the same time, feel free to let me know. For now, I care for Thomas more than I care for visions of grandeur.

Love,  
James

***

Hey, Rosalie! It’s nice to talk to you. Let me start out by saying you have such a pretty name.

I’m the friend James told you about. My name is Theodosia. You seemed unsure what pronouns to use for me, so I’ll tell you that she/her is fine for these letters. I go to some classes at Princeton with your brother, and whew, is he smart! We all wish we had half the brains that he has. I’m sure that you’re the same.

I spent my time in high school mostly closeted, too, though I tried to come out to my parents a couple times. Let’s just say it was best to give up. My best confidant was my boyfriend, Aaron, who is also trans. We’re still dating! Inconveniently for us, he was living in New York City while I was in Georgia, though we both attend Princeton now. That didn’t stop him from being a huge sap, though. Words can make a big difference in someone’s life; remember that.

Clothes can really help you feel better about yourself sometimes, but remember that whatever you’re doing or wearing, your gender is still valid. Have you seen those pictures of Rihanna in suits? She still looks beautiful that way, and so do you. Even if you have to do something you don’t like very much, you can still be a girl doing them if you want to be. I have a good friend who plays soccer like a star, and she just proves that girls can do anything we set our minds to, huh? ☺

The church thing definitely sucks. I know it’s hard, but please don’t let it get to you. You won’t go to Hell for being a girl. I want you to know that for sure. G-d makes all types of girls, and we all have our own jobs to do. You’d never go to Hell for something you can’t help, and isn’t a sin. As long as you’re still doing as much good as you can and loving other people, you’re doing the right thing. Keep your chin up.

I’m sending a picture of my boyfriend and me so you can see that girls like us are plenty loved. Ain’t he handsome?

Your Friend,  
Theodosia

—

James,

I did what you said to do to the letter. That thing you said, that’s really awesome. I’m sorry you can’t tell people more. But that makes me really really happy, even though maybe I shouldn’t be.

Theodosia sent me a really nice letter and picture. Please tell her thanks very much from me. I look at the picture a lot. She’s very pretty and I love her smile. Her hair looks great. Mary says she’s pretty, too, and that she hates her parents, but I don’t know if I should say that.

Thank you so much again.

Love,  
Rosalie

—

Dear James,

I decided to go to MSU yesterday, like you said. Mary wouldn’t go with me, but she walked with me to the door and waved goodbye and watched outside for a few minutes.

I didn’t talk for most of it, and I felt kind of stupid. I didn’t know what pronouns to put, so I just wrote “whatever” on it. At least Peggy talks a lot, so I didn’t have to worry about it very much.

Everyone seems really nice there. I’m not really sure how to describe what I felt, but I think I liked it. What was really, really cool was when Peggy mentioned _Star vs. the Forces of Evil_ and let me recite my favorite episode. Peggy’s friend Maria Cosway started clapping when I was done, and Peggy called me “wicked smart,” so I think that was a good thing!!! That was the best part. I was really tired afterword because it gets pretty loud there, but I think it was fun.

Mary is still letting me try on her clothes, but sometimes we just go to the park together. There’s a park near her house that reminds me of our backyard. It’s very peaceful there, and Mary is teaching me how to make flower chains. She says I’m better with my hands than she is. I think she’s just lying to make me feel better, but I do like making them. I don’t have any of them, though, because I keep giving them to her. I feel like she deserves to have them.

I miss you. Francis Taylor is the oldest one, now, and he’s getting really strict. I just tend to stay in my room after school, but I can still hear everything. I can hear _everything_.

It’s okay, though. I’m managing things like you’ve said, so there’s no need to worry. I just wanted to tell you about yesterday, but I guess I got a bit off-track. Do you have anyone like Peggy?

Love,  
Rosalie


End file.
